


needs of the many

by venndaai



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Other, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: During a raid on Project Protean's headquarters, Vector is captured.
Relationships: Vector Hyllus/Eckard Lokin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Fic In A Box





	needs of the many

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gammarad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gammarad/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this, I loved your requests <3

It is late in the Alderaan year, when we begin our quest to track down our own beginnings, the organization that pulled the strings that led to a young Diplomatic Service agent being sent into a Killik hive alone. In the Juran Mountains, the morning air is sharp with frost. Oroboro prepares for the dance that will welcome the new sun, the new year and the birth of new hatchlings. Thousands of parsecs away, the Dawn Herald walks the corridors of a spaceship, listening to the sounds of its inhabitants moving along their familiar patterns, listening to the distant static of the stars. 

Since becoming a Joiner, we have had the opportunity to take on many tasks usually out of the purview of the Diplomatic Service. Tracking down Project Protean has been an interesting one. It reminds us of the essential function of Joiners, as part of the Nest. Without outside influence, outside minds, Oroboro would not be able to do things like following data trails or gather information from contacts in the imperial Diplomatic and Intelligence services. The reminder is a pleasant one. It feels good to be needed. 

“How are you handling all this, Vector?” Doctor Lokin asks us, after he shows us a project file he’s gotten from an old contact. 

“We’re not certain what you’re asking, Doctor,” we say, putting down the screen. The ship hums softly, the floor of the lounge where we sit vibrating a little. Space is quiet and strange, different from the ocean of sensations inside a biosphere, but after months living on the X-70B Phantom, we've acclimated to it. 

“I’ve noticed you still retain some feelings of loyalty towards the Empire,” Lokin says. 

We tilt our head. “And you do not.”

He chuckles, dryly. It's a pleasant sound, against the quiet background hum of the ship. “My friend, I was never loyal to begin with. My association with the Empire was always one of convenience. I have a fondness for it, and I would prefer it continue to exist, as the alternatives would, I believe, be unpleasant both for myself and for the galaxy at large. But I’ve gotten the impression that you actually believed in it at some point- or perhaps still do?”

We take a moment to consider. “The nest does not,” we say at last, “though we have convinced it that an alliance with the Empire will be beneficial. We- Vector does admire it, and believe in it. That may seem naive to you, or foolish.”

“Not at all,” Lokin says, which could probably mean anything. "Is it strange, having a belief that isn't shared by your hive consciousness?"

"No," we say, "though we can guess why you might think that. It's difficult to explain, but as a Herald, we need a certain degree of individuality. Any civilization without multiple perspectives is doomed to extinction. We were chosen to be a Herald because our past as a diplomat gave us a particularly wide perspective. But we remain one voice out of thousands. There is no chance of our opinions overruling the nest's."

"I see," Lokin says, and sits down, sipping his cup of stimcaf. His gloved hands curl gently around the shape of the cup. The action of sitting might imply that the conversation is over, but we have the sensation that he is waiting for something.

“We know what our superiors think of us,” we say at last. “What most Imperials think of the Killiks. We do not believe ourselves to be naïve.” 

“And Project Protean?” Lokin asks. “How does it make you feel, to know you were the Empire’s test subject?”

“Regardless of their motivations, they cannot be allowed to continue,” we say. “Based on the safety protocols described in this file, they cannot be based anywhere with a complex biosphere. We believe we can rule out Quesh.”

Lokin responds, and the conversation shifts, and it is not until later that we realize we evaded the question.

It is the first time we have noticed ourselves doing that, since the Joining. 

There is a black project research division of the Imperial Science Bureau operating a cell on Balmorra. Perhaps studying any connections between the insectile colicoids and the killiks. The chief scientist likes to go for a drink in the Sobrik cantina. One evening she drinks too much, and wakes up in an abandoned shipping container, in a warehouse in the Sundari conflict zone. Her interrogation is punctuated by the sounds of laser fire outside. 

She’s unfortunately recalcitrant. Lokin considers, and then looks at us. “Could you join her to your hive? Find out her secrets that way?”

We see the woman’s skin turn gray, her eyes widen. Her aura spikes. She knows what the Joining is, and she fears it. “We would have to bring her to Alderaan, to the nest,” we say. “We cannot bring someone into the hive so far from the song. The fingerlings in my body could burrow into her spine and brain and she might speak truth to us, but what remained of her would never be part of us.”

“No,” the scientist says. “No, I’ll tell you everything I know. Please.” 

She tells us the location of the base. She tells us the names and ranks of those in charge. She tells us about the research, about the captured dissected Killik warriors and Joiners. When she is done, Lokin kills her. It is odd; in his Rakghoul form he leaves viscera in his wake, but as himself he kills much more cleanly than we could. 

We want to bury her, but Lokin says that will bring more suspicion than simply leaving her as a nameless casualty of the Balmorran insurgency. We have left many bodies behind us as we travel through the stars, but it itches, this time. Even inside the warehouse we feel the dry wind blowing through fields of tall grasses, carrying the screams of machinery and the silence of the dead. This world is red and coppery. Lokin is calm and collected, and his presence steadies us. As we leave the warehouse and slip back across the scarred earth and through the lines of death machinery, he talks about plans of attack. Preparations to be made.

We wonder what it would take to truly surprise or unsettle him. We think about it until we reach the hidden shuttle and break from the atmosphere of a torn-apart world. 

  
  


The station is hidden in deep space, far from the light of any star. Infiltrating it is difficult, but doable. A plan is made, and executed.

We plant the explosive in the chemical storage area, making sure it is out of sight, and contact Lokin through the communicator. “The slice was successful,” he says. “Remind me to thank SCORPIO later. On my way back now. You?”

“Everything is going according to plan,” we say. “We’ll see you at the transport in four minutes.”

Kaliyo produced the explosive for us, and instructed us in its use. There are many areas in which we do not trust her, but in this, we have faith in her expertise. The Agent also double checked the equipment. “Don’t ask me,” Lokin said. “Very much not my area.” But we are confident in the plan and our ability to carry it off, right up until we turn into an unoccupied room with glass walls and a locked door, and the door we entered by clicks behind us.

We turn. Now we see the white robed figures- on the other side of the glass.

“There you are, little bug,” one of the scientists says. We let the hum of the universe rise in our mind, preparing ourselves to strike at the glass, our glands releasing hormones to increase muscle efficiency, to dull pain.

There is a hissing sound. 

The gas swirling into the room is a terribly familiar taupe, and we hold our breath, thinking to ourselves, no. No. No. We strike at the glass with all our strength. A bone cracks, but the glass does not even shake in its frame. The effort has winded us and after only a few more moments we have to suck in air, and then the screaming starts. The NIght Herald, in our mind. The thing that we could be. That the Nest could be. 

There is no part of the Nest, of its possible configurations and complexities, that is ugly or frightening to us. The Night Herald protects, when necessary. But to have it called when unnecessary- when we have not made the choice to welcome the screams and the tearing devouring hunger- 

When SCORPIO did this to us, it was the worst thing anyone had ever done. 

It is no easier this time. 

We tap our comms. “Doctor,” we gasp.

His voice in our ear is calm, collected. Slightly out of breath. “I’ll be there in a moment-”

“Leave us,” we croak. The Song of the Universe is going dark, discordant, violet. We dig our fingernails into our palms and try to think of peace. The jungle on Dromund Kaas, the drip of water and his smile. “Set up- for capture. They’re prepared. They’ll take you too.”

Silence, the static of the comms. We must fill it, must speak while we still can. “They will study us.” We force the words out. “Use knowledge against the nest. You can prevent that. Trigger the explosive.”

One second. Three. Five. The stars are blinking red. We close our eyes. 

“Unnecessary,” Lokin says. “We will dismantle the entire organization before they can use the information. Vector?”

We breathe out. “Yes, Doctor.” We do not ask him to promise. We do not ask if he is lying to us. Trust can be a choice, at times. That is something Vector understands, though the nest does not.

“I’ll see you soon.” 

We hope he hears the thanks in the sigh that is all we can manage before the darkness claims us. 

  
  
  


After that there is pain. 

  
  


“Vector,” someone is saying. Lokin. We hear a sound of stretching latex, and then there is a gloved hand on our cheek. It stays there for a moment before clinically tilting our head to examine us. Quickly, but carefully and efficiently, the tubes connecting our body to the machines around us are detached, the needles extracted, the breathing mask removed. 

“Vector,” Lokin says again. “Can you hear me? You’ve been injected with a synthetic neurotoxicant. Your body has been attempting to counter it, but you are losing the battle.” His hands are back on our face, but now they are stroking. One of his hands pauses, and then we feel it wrapping around our own hand, our cold fingers. “If you can hear me,” he says, “I’d be greatly obliged if you could squeeze my hand as hard as you can.” 

We try to obey. But the lab is cold and distant. We need the song, but it is so faint. We could hear it better if we let ourselves fall into it, drift into the comfort of its quiet hum. 

But Lokin is holding our hand, and he is saying something. “I need you to hold on, Vector,” he is saying, his tone as calm and passionless as ever, but the words themselves sparking. His grip on our hand suddenly tightens. “Breathe,” he says. 

We try, and fail. 

He is silent, then. We wish that he is not. That we could be sure he is there by more than the distant stabbing pain of stim injections and, some time after that, the more extreme pain of machinery taking over vital processes. It would be nice to hear his voice. We know he talks to himself when he works. A memory drifts by; lingering in the central lounge of the Phantom to listen to the soft song of Lokin at work, recording one of his many audio logs. He did not notice we were there until an hour later, when he paused to stretch his legs- very important to take small breaks every now and again, he told us. “Was I bothering you with my chatter?” he asked, smiling and taking a seat next to us on the bench by the holoterminal. 

“We enjoyed the sound,” we told him. “However, we do not wish to intrude on your privacy, if you wish not to be overheard.”

“No,” he said, “that’s fine,” and his smile changed a little, in a way we could not interpret. “Compared to our other shipmates, you, my friend, are wonderfully unobtrusive.”

Warmth bloomed in our chest cavity. “We are glad you consider us to be friends,” we said. “We also consider you a friend.” 

Lokin paused, a glass of water halfway to his lips. “In most cases my use of the word is simply a figure of speech,” he says, but before we could feel a swoop of disappointment, he continued, “In this case, however… I suppose it is a fitting enough description. It has been a long time since I had… real friends. Live ones, at any rate.”

“We are honored,” we said. If he were part of us we would have hummed and clicked. Instead we smiled.

We can’t feel anything any more.

There are many, many benefits to being part of the nest, and one is that we no longer experience the fear of death the way this body did when it was only Vector. There is fear of extinction, the death of the Oroboro or even of the Kind entirely, but that is a grand, distant fear. On a biological level, terror and panic are no longer triggered by the thought of this body’s destruction. There is of course still an aversion, the way an individual sentience would not like the thought of losing a finger, or an ear; but even if we die on this table, the Oroboro will continue, and all the important parts of us will continue, too, all of the thoughts and memories that are us-as-Vector will be preserved in the ancestral memory. 

But though the information will be preserved, the shape of them will be lost. The Vector who travelled the stars, who saw the jungles of Belsavis and the ruins of the Voss, who touched and was touched by fellow travelers, who was a ‘real friend’, that Vector will be gone and will not return. And so, though we don’t feel fear, we feel a deep and terrible sadness, sinking into us even when all other sensation has left. 

In the dark there is nothing, until there is a single spark. 

For a while it seems to have been an illusion, but then there is a second spark. And a third. And then a filament flares into life, and a glowing network springs up around us. The universe, coming back into our perception. It’s us who have been restarted, we know, but from our perspective, it is more like the universe has been turned off and then on again. 

The Nest is there. Concerned. Pleased to have found us again, as we are pleased to be found. Tentatively we try to wake the fingerlings nesting in our flesh. A few respond, and we set them to examining the state of our body. Most seem to be dead. Whatever happened to this body was catastrophic, but it appears to be more or less in working order now, though the fingerlings will need to be replaced and the remains absorbed. Our lungs are breathing unassisted, our heart is beating, our gut is still processing traces of the poisons we were force fed in the lab, which means only a few days can have passed since then. The fingerlings crawl through the passages carved for them, distributing a few helpful molecules, and one by one, additional senses begin to come online. We can hear, suddenly; we can hear Lokin’s voice.

“There you are. Your neural activity is indicating you can hear me now. If you can also understand, then I’ll tell you that we’re safely back on the X-70B, and I believe I’ve managed to stabilize you, but I’d very much appreciate a sign that I preserved your brain function as well as your vital signs.”

A pause.

“If you can hear me, try to blink.”

We instruct one of our remaining fingerlings. It squeezes up through our throat, out past our lips, and crawls up to a vantage point on our nose. Through its faceted eyes we see the familiar shapes of the medical bay, and Lokin, his aura bright with white concern. The fingerling hovers, and after a moment, Lokin slowly offers up an outstretched hand, a horizontal finger. The fingerling alights. 

“Hello there,” Lokin says softly, with more sentimentality than we’ve ever before seen him display in his scientific pursuits.

The fingerling crawls up the sleeve of his jacket. Lokin remains still until it reaches his shoulder and nestles against his collar. He sighs, then, and retires to a seat against the wall, and lets his body slump, gradually passing into a light sleep state. Through the eyes of the fingerling we see our Vector body, motionless on the cot. In the Protean lab we were naked, but since then someone has dressed us in a light medical gown. The sutures are hidden under it, as is the leg where samples of flesh were removed for study.

After a while, the fingerling sleeps, and so do we.

When we wake again, the work inside our body is considerably advanced, our systems repaired enough that our muscles have begun to respond to our commands again. We are able to open our eyes, and so we do so. 

Something beeps. We turn our head, reveling in our ability to do so, and see Lokin, still in the same position, open his eyes and quickly stand, the fingerling nearly dislodging but managing to keep a grip on his collar just in time. Lokin moves to our side with his usual strange economy of motion, smooth and almost impossibly quick but not exactly graceful. Up close, all we can see is his white coat, and we tilt our head back, the fingerling moving at our command to rest on the machinery above us, granting us a more complete image of him. His gloved fingers lightly grip our wrist, feeling our pulse. An oddly redundant action, when the machinery is playing our heartbeat out at a slow rolling tempo. 

“Glad to see you awake,” Lokin says, and then he helps us to sit up and drink some water. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and we can see from his aura that he is more concerned than the words and their bland tone would suggest. He is perhaps still unsure that our identity has made it through our experience intact, that we know him and know ourself. We try to set his mind at ease.

“We are feeling much better,” we say, throat hoarse, “thank you, Doctor.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” he says, the crackle in his aura smoothing out. “I am truly in awe of Kilik resilience. You were clinically dead for twenty minutes, as far as I could determine, before spontaneously auto resuscitating. Is that a common occurrence with Joiners?”

“Not common, no,” we say slowly, pausing to sip at the water. “Dead Kind are brought back to the nest and ritually consumed. Joiners included. This body serves as an extension of the nest for the segments here on this ship. When we died, the fingerlings should have eaten us. Instead they continued repairing us. That is interesting. Perhaps your efforts inspired them.”

“I was very motivated,” Lokin says. “Cipher Nine graced me with some highly creative descriptions of what I could expect to befall me if you did not recover.”

“Then we are in the Agent's debt. And also in yours, Doctor.”

He reacts oddly to that, his fingers tensing around our wrist and then dropping it entirely. “You do not owe me anything.”

“Protean’s researchers-”

“Died screaming,” he says, with a teeth-baring smile. “Ripped limb from limb. It was- most satisfying.” He slips a hand into a pocket on his coat, and retrieves a small crystal, which he holds out to us, flat on the palm of his hand, the way he held the fingerling, earlier. 

We raise an eyebrow.

“The only extant copy of the information the project had gathered on the Kiliks, and the Joining. I didn’t want to take it upon myself to decide whether the data should be completely destroyed.”

We glance up into his eyes, in some astonishment. There are few things more unlike Eckard Lokin than the surrender of information, of advantage. This is something the Nest does not understand, as any data known to one is naturally known to every other. As Vector, the former diplomat, it is something familiar. 

“I certainly wouldn’t blame you for not believing me,” Lokin says, smiling his usual smile. “I can’t say I particularly have principles, but I’m not always a liar.”

“We believe you,” we say, honestly.

He is unreadable by any of the human methods we have slowly attempted to relearn. It is only the Song that allows us any access to him. His aura is the deep ultraviolet of rage. 

“You are angry,” we say, seeking confirmation.

He steeples his fingers in his lap. “Protean’s… scientists,” he says, slowly, “nearly destroyed something entirely irreplaceable.”

“According to the information we found, their actions led to our- to my Joining,” we say. “Perhaps they considered it their right to destroy what they had created.”

“That was not their right,” he says, and we are startled by the way his aura crackles, betraying the vehemence that we cannot detect in his voice. We are startled because he rarely displays this kind of moral indignation. Usually he is cynical, resigned to the cruelties and injustices of the galaxy.

“If they had succeeded in terminating and dissecting me,” we say, “all our knowledge would have been preserved with the Nest. Oroboro would have sent another Herald, if the Agent was willing to have them. We have made sure the Nest understands the mutual benefit of this arrangement. Our- my- particular skillset, my connections in the Diplomatic Service, would be lost, it’s true, but in the greater scheme of things, we are far from irreplaceable.”

He stares at us, with his impenetrable beady black eyes, and then he shifts, and his fingers touch the back of our hand, very lightly.

“Not to me,” he says.

Slowly, we rotate our hand, so that we can thread our fingers among his. His skin is warm even through the glove; we know our average body temperature is significantly lower than an average human’s. 

“That is kind of you to say,” we reply. 

He brings our hands up to his lips and presses his mouth softly to our knuckles. 

Among many of the things we feel then is gratitude to him, for being so direct. Of course he knows our difficulties with social subtleties, and does his best to accommodate them; and thinking this we additionally feel a wave of fondness. When he gently lowers our hand back to the bedside we rub our thumb along his wrist bone. 

He laughs, and we look at him, tilting our head in question.

“Oh, forgive me my levity, it’s only that I find myself with some charmingly prosaic concerns,” he says. “I am a lecherous old man of dubious morals and an even more dubious life expectancy, and you are a very beautiful young person with a long and interesting career ahead of you. I am afraid Cipher Nine will make good on those threats.”

“Were it not for you, our career would have ended today,” we point out.

He looks away slightly. “I disagree with you there,” he says. “It was entirely my fault that you were in that laboratory at all. If I hadn’t started the Science Bureau down that line of investigation in the first place-”

“We would not have become a Joiner,” we interrupt. “Doctor. Look at us.”

Politely, he turns his head back, his eyes meeting ours. 

“We-” We stop, and then, continue. “Even if I had known that I was being used as an experimental subject, even if I had known that I would be Joined and what that would entail, I would still have accepted the contact mission. We are more now than I ever could have been alone. We have seen things I could not have imagined. We have served the Empire in ways I never could have alone. And we have met you.” We tap his wrist lightly. “Would you have looked at Vector Hyllus twice if they were not Dawn Herald of the Oroboro?”

He smiles. “I would have looked,” he says. “I was being serious when I said you are very beautiful.”

Individual beauty is not a concept that exists for the Kind, and we fumble in trying to reciprocate, saying, “You are also very- aesthetically pleasing.” The words are inadequate for what we wish to express, which has less to do with the criteria humans use in picking a mate, and more to do with the ecstasy of the Song of the Universe. The unique taste of his aura, sharp with disinfectant and rich with animal sweat. The sense of power contained and controlled in his small movements. His voice in our ear translating the Kaas City Opera, as we sat close together in a dark warm box, distant figures on a glowing stage singing songs that blended with the harmony of the planet beneath us. The way he bends over his stimcaf, warming his hands as he engages in vigorous debate with the Agent, stars singing all around our little ship. 

“You’re not very good at baseless flattery,” he says. “I’d avoid it in future.”

“Mm,” we say. “We promise to restrain the Agent from any acts of chivalry on our behalf, if that will motivate you to return to kissing any part of our anatomy.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he warns, and then he obliges us, and continues obliging, as the machines beep and the fingerlings settle into rest and far, far away, the Oroboro raise their limbs up to an orange sunset sky. 


End file.
